sure that a Personal Being comes to me, and, as He comes, brings some of His own life to flow into my life. I am also sure that with Him come those who live in Him, that all whom I have known or know, and longed or long to know better, who were worth knowing, are near me, are, if I let them, living their lives in my life, making me what I should not be without them. (These are facts, of which I think I may say I have more certainty in the best moments of my life than I have now that Switzerland exists. But I may be exaggerating. Perhaps, as regards the second fact-of the other persons with Him-I may have spoken too strongly as regards my certainty. It is so hard to say exactly what one means.) I am sure that there are many of us also who can verify the experience of Forbes Robinson by our own. There have been times also in our lives when we are quite sure that a Personal Being comes to us and brings some of His own life to flow into our lives. And we are also sure, though not so sure, that with Him come others who were our friends and inspirers in life, and whom, at such times at least, we call not the dead, nor yet even the departed. I cannot remember the time when I did not have occasions which answer to Forbes Robinson's description. My mother died when I was about seven years of age, and in my growing youth my faith in her guardian presence was my protection from temptation and my inspiration to achievement, until gradually, through this sense of her companionship, there came into my life a companionship dearer and more divine even than hers. I am sure of this, not only because it is a personal experience, but also because literature abounds with trustworthy witnesses to a like experience. And the inspired life, the enhanced courage, the quickened hope, the invigorated resolution, attest the truth and value of the vision. There are times when words seem to misinterpret spirit, and spirit to obscure personality; when the invisible seems more certain than the visible; moments in life when the choir invisible seems nearer and more assured than anything we can see; when, with Paul, we can say, Even though we have known Christ after the flesh, yet now we know him so no more." Then we realize that we are compassed about with a great cloud of witnesses, and we run our race with renewed patience because they are watching us; then we realize that we have already come to the church of the firstborn which are written in heaven, and to God, the judge of all, and to the spirits of just men made perfect. Then problems are solved, burdens are lightened, duty is clarified, the diviner motives strengthened, all life is illuminated, and the voices of temptation for the moment are stilled. Doubtless we may convert these experiences of inspiration to service into experiences of spiritual luxury which prevent us from service. So the disciples wished to build three tabernacles and remain on the mountain top in enjoyment of the vision. But with that request the vision vanished, and the Master led them down the mountain side to the life of service in the valley below. But also it cannot be doubted that there are many whose lives are never illuminated by this spiritual vision, because they will have none of it. They cannot trust their imagination and their emotions. They desire, they say, to face the facts; and nothing seems to them fact which they cannot weigh in the scales and test in the crucible of the laboratory. And there are others who are so busy in service that they think they have no time to be served. They live only in the active voice. They cannot afford time for a silent hour. They follow the Master in his ministry of teaching and healing, but not to the mountain solitudes to look and to listen. Such often live noble lives; but their lives lack the joyousness and illumination which characterized the life of the Master. Be still, and know that I am God,” says the Psalmist. If we would know that God is God, we must sometimes be still. If we would hear his voice, we must sometimes listen. If we would be obedient to the heavenly vision, we must sometimes shut out the seen that we may look upon the unseen. To do more effectively our duty, to render more effective our service, we must sometimes leave duty and service for that solitude which is the divinest and most inspiring companionship. To pray is to listen. And he who would serve his Master best must sometimes go apart with the Master to rest in him.' THE PRINCESS AND THE VAGABONE I BY RUTH SAWYER F you would hear a tale in Ireland, you must first tell one. So it happened, as we sat in the Hegartys' cabin on a late fall night after a crossroads dance, that I, the stranger, found myself beginning the story-telling. The cabin was overflowing with neighbors from the hills about: girls and lads stretched tired-limbed beside the hearth, elders sitting in an outer circle. The men smoked, the women were busy with their knitting, and the old gray piper-hidden in the shadow of the chimney-corner-sat with his pipes across his knees, fingering the stops with tenderness as unconsciously as a parent's hand goes out to stroke a much-loved child. From between the curtains of the outshot bed peered the children, sleepless-eyed and laughing. The kettle hung, freshly filled, over the fire; the empty griddle stood beside it, ready for a late baking, for there would be tea and currant-bread at the end of the evening. I remember I told the legend of the Catskills, dwelling long on Rip's shrewish wife and the fame of her sharp tongue. They liked the story; I knew well that they would, for the supernatural lies close to the Irish heart; and before ever it was finished Michael Hegarty was knocking the ashes from his pipe that he might be ready with the next tale. "That's grand," he said at the conclusion. "Do ye know, ye've given me a great consolation? I was afther thinkin' that Ireland had the exclusive rights to all the sharp-tongued, pestherin' wives," and he shook his head teasingly at the wife who sat across the firelight from him. 'Did ye, now?” she answered, her face drawn into an expression of mock solemnity. Sure, was it because ye knew we had the run o' vagabone husbands ?" The children gurgled with appreciative merriment, but Michael pulled me gently by the sleeve. years ago which he took sthraight out of a Connaught tale. Like as not he had it from an Irish nurse, or maybe he heard it from a rovin' tinker that came to his town." "Which play do you mean?" "Faith, I haven't the name by me handy, just, but your story put me in mind of it. I was readin' it myself once, so it's the truth I am tellin' ye. He has it changed a wee bit-turned it an' patched it an' made it up in a sthrange fashion; but 'tis the same tale, for all o' that. Sure, did ye ever know an Englishman yet that would let on to anything he'd took from an Irishman ?" A joyful murmur greeted the last. 66 There was a long pause; the burning turf sifted down into faery gold" upon the hearth and the kettle commenced to sing. Michael Hegarty smiled foolishly "I am afther wishin' ye had the Gaelic so as I could tell it to ye right. Ye see, I'm not good at givin' a tale in EnglishI haven't the words, just ;" and he fumbled uneasily with his empty pipe. "Ye can do it," said the wife, proudly. "I can make the try," he answered, simply; and then he added, regretfully, "But I wish ye had the Gaelic.” Thus did Michael Hegarty begin the story of the Princess and the Vagabone. I marveled at first that the poetry and beauty of language should come so readily yet so unconsciously to his lips; and then I remembered that his people had once been the poets of the world, and men had come from far away to be taught by them. This is the tale as he told it that night by the hearth-save that the soft Donegal brogue is missing, and nowhere can you hear the rhythmic click of the knitters' needles or the singing of the kettle on the "I have a tale-do ye know Willie crook making accompaniment. Shakespeare?" I nodded, surprised at the question. "Well, ye may not be knowin' this: he was afther writin' a play a few hundthred Once, in the olden time, when an Irish king sat in every province and plenty covered the land, so that fat wee pigs eat ran free on the highroad, crying, "Who'll us ?" there lived in Connaught a grand old king with one daughter. She was as tall and slender as the reeds that grow by Loch Erne, and her face was the fairest in seven counties. This was more the pity, for the temper she had did not match it at all, at all; it was the blackest and ugliest that ever fell to the birthlot of a princess. She was proud, she was haughty; her tongue had the length and the sharpness of the thorns on a sidheog bush; and from the day she was born till long after she was a woman grown she was never heard to say a kind word or known to do a kind deed to a living creature. As each year passed, the King would think to himself, ""Tis the New Year will see her better." But it was worse instead of better she grew, until one day the King found himself at the end of his patience, and he groaned aloud as he sat alone, drinking his poteen. "Faith, another man shall have her for the next eighteen years, for, by my soul, I've had my fill of her!" So it came about, as I am telling ye, that the King sent word to the nobles of the neighboring provinces that whosoever would win the consent of his daughter in marriage should have the half of his kingdom and the whole of his blessing. On the day that she was eighteen they came: a wonderful procession of earls, dukes, princes, and kings, riding up to the castle gate, a-courting. The air was filled with the ring of the silver trappings on their horses, and the courtyard was gay with the colors of their bratas and the long cloaks they wore, riding. The King made each welcome according to his rank; and then he sent a serving-man to his daughter, bidding her come and choose her suitor, the time being ripe for her to marry. It was a courteous message that the King sent, but the Princess heard little of it. She flew into the hall on the heels of the serving-man, like a fowl hawk after a bantam cock. Her eyes burned with the anger that was hot in her heart, while she stamped her foot in the King's face until the rafters rang with the noise of it. "So ye will be giving me away for the asking to any one of these blithering fools who have a rag to their backs or a castle to their names?" The King grew crimson at her words. He was ashamed that they should all hear how sharp was her tongue; moreover, he was fearsome lest they should take to their heels and leave him with a shrew on his hands for another eighteen years. He was hard at work piecing together a speech made up of all the grand words he knew, when the Princess strode past him on to the first suitor in the line. "At any rate, I'll not be choosin' ye, ye long-legged corn-crake," and she gave him a sound kick as she went on to the next. He was a large man with a shaggy beard ; and, seeing how the first suitor had fared, he tried a wee bit of a smile on her while his hand went out coaxingly. She saw, and the anger in her grew threefold. sprang at him, digging the two of her hands deep in his beard, and then she wagged his foolish head back and forth, screaming : She "Take that, and that, and that, ye old whiskered rascal !” It was a miracle that any beard was left on his face the way that she pulled it. But she let him go free at last, and turned to a thin, sharp-faced prince with a monstrous long nose. The nose took her fancy, and she gave it a tweak, telling the prince to take himself home before he did any damage with it. The next one she called “ she called "pudding-face" and slapped his fat cheeks until they were purple, and the poor lad groaned with the sting of it. "Go back to your trough, for I'll not marry a grunter, i' faith," said she. She moved swiftly down the line in less time than it takes for the telling. It came to the mind of many of the suitors that they would be doing a wise thing if they betook themselves off before their turn came; so as many of them as were not fastened to the floor with fear started away. There happened to be a fat, crooked-legged prince from Leinster just making for the door when the Princess looked around. In a trice she reached out for the tongs that stood on the hearth near by, and she laid it across his shoulders, sending him spinning into the yard. "Take that, ye old gander, and good riddance to ye !" she cried after him. It was then that she saw looking at her a great towering giant of a man; and his eyes burned through hers, deep down into her soul. So great was he that he could have picked her up with a single hand and thrown her after the gander; and she knew it, and yet she felt no fear. He was as handsome as Nuada of the Silver Hand; and not a mortal fault could she have found with him, not if she had tried for a hundred years. The two of them stood facing each other, glaring, as if each would spring at the other's throat the next moment; but all the while the Princess was thinking, and thinking, how wonder ful he was, from the top of his curling black hair, down the seven feet of him, to the golden clasps on his shoes. What the man was thinking I cannot be telling. Like a breath of wind on smoldering turf, her liking for him set her anger fierce-burning again. She gave him a sound cuff of the ear; then turned, and with a sob in her throat she went flying from the room, the serving-men scattering before her as if she had been a hundred million robbers on a raid. And the King? Faith, he was dumb with rage. But when he saw the blow that his daughter had given to the finest gentleman in all of Ireland, he went after her as if he had been two hundred million constables on the trail of robbers. "Ye are a disgrace and a shame to me," said he, catching up with her and holding firmly to her two hands; "and, what's more, ye are a disgrace and a blemish to my castle and my kingdom; I'll not keep ye in it a day longer. vagabone who comes begging at the door shall have ye for his wife.” The first traveling "Will he?" and the Princess tossed her head in the King's face and went to her chamber. The next morning a poor singing sthronshuch came to the castle to sell a song for a penny or a morsel of bread. The song was sweet that he sang, and the Princess listened as Oona, the tirewoman, was winding strands of her long black hair with golden thread: "The gay young wran sang over the moor. I'll build me a nest,' sang he. "Twill have a thatch and a wee latched door, For the wind blows cold from the sea. And I'll let no one but my true love in, For she is the mate for me,' Sang the gay young wran. The wee brown wran by the hedgerow cried 'I'll wait for him here,' cried she. 'For the way is far and the world is wide, And he might miss the way to me. Long is the time when the heart is shut, But I'll open to none save he,' Sang the wee brown wran.' A strange throb came to the heart of the Princess when the song was done. She pulled her hair free from the hands of the tirewoman. "Get silver," she said; "I would throw it to him." And when she saw the wonderment grow in Oona's face, she added: "The song pleased me. Can I not pay for what I like without having ye look at me as if ye feared my wits had flown? get the silver !" Go, But when she pushed open the grating and leaned far out to throw it, the sthronshuch had gone. For the King had heard the song as well as the Princess. His rage was still with him, and when he saw who it was, he lost no time, but called him quickly inside. "Ye are as fine a vagabone as I could wish for," he said. "Maybe ye are not knowing it, but ye are a bridegroom this day." And the King went on to tell him the whole tale. The tale being finished, he sent ten strong men to bring the Princess down. A king's word was law in those days. The Vagabone knew this; and, what's more, he knew he must marry the Princess, whether he liked it or no. The Vagabone had great height, but he stooped so that it shortened the length of him. His hair was long, and it fell, uncombed and matted, about his shoulders. His brogues were patched, his hose were sadly worn, and with his rags he was the sorriest cut of a man that a maid ever laid her two eyes on. When the Princess came, she was dressed in a gown of gold, with jewels hanging from every thread of it, and her cap was caught with a jeweled brooch. She looked as beautiful as a May morning-with a thunder-cloud rising back of the hills; and the Vagabone held his breath for a moment, watching her. Then he pulled the King gently by the arm. "I'll not have a wife that looks grander than myself. If I marry your daughter, I must marry her in rags-the same as my own." The King agreed 'twas a good idea, and sent for the worst dress of rags in the whole countryside. The rags were fetched, the Princess dressed, the priest brought, and the two of them married; and, though she cried and she kicked and she cuffed and she prayed, she was the Vagabone's wife-hard and fast. Now take her, and good luck go with ye," said the King. Then his eyes fell on the tongs on the hearth. "Here, take these along-they may come in handy on the road; but, whatever ye do, don't let them out of your hands, for your wife is very powerful with them herself." Out of the castle gate, across the gardens, and into the country that lay beyond went the Princess and the Vagabone. The sky was blue over their heads and the air was full of spring; each wee creature that passed them on the road seemed bursting with the joy of it. There was naught but anger in the Princess's heart, however; and what was in the heart of the Vagabone I cannot be telling. This I know that he sang the "Song of the Wran" as they went. Often and often the Princess turned back on the road or sat down, swearing she would go no farther; and often and often did she feel the weight of the tongs across her shoulders that day. At noon the two sat down by the crossroads to rest. "I am hungry," said the Princess; 66 "not a morsel of food have I tasted this day. Ye will go get me some." 66 Not I, my dear," said the Vagabone; "ye will go beg for yourself." Never," said the Princess. Then ye'll go hungry," said the Vagabone; and that was all. He lighted his pipe and went to sleep with one eye open and the tongs under him. One, two, three hours passed, and the sun hung low in the sky. The Princess sat there until hunger drove her to her feet. She rose wearily and stumbled to the road. It might have been the sound of wheels that had started her, I cannot be telling; but as she reached the road a great coach drawn by six black horses came galloping up. The Princess made a sign for it to stop; though she was in rags, yet she was still so beautiful that the coachman drew in the horses and asked her what she was wanting. "I am near to starving;" and as she spoke the tears started to her eyes, while a new soft note crept into her voice. "Do ye think your master could spare me a bit of food—or a shilling?" and the hand that had been used to strike went out for the first time to beg. It was a prince who rode inside the coach that day, and he heard her. Reaching out a fine, big hamper through the window, he told her she was hearty welcome to whatever she found in it, along with his blessing. But as she put up her arms for it, just, she looked-and saw that the prince was none other than the fat suitor whose face she had slapped on the day before. Then anger came back to her again, for the shame of begging from him. She empted the hamperchicken pasty, jam, currant bread, and allon top of his head, peering through the window, and threw the empty basket at the coachman. Away drove the coach; away ran the Princess, and threw herself, sobbing, on the ground, near the Vagabone. ""Twas a good dinner that ye lost," said the Vagabone; and that was all. But the next coach that passed she stopped. This time it was the shaggybearded rascal that rode inside. She paid no heed, however, and begged again for food; but her cheeks grew crimson when he looked at her, and she had to be biting her lips fiercely to keep the sharp words back. Ye are a lazy good-for-naught to beg. Why don't ye work for your food?" called the rascal after her. And the Vagabone answered: "Ye are right entirely. 'Tis a sin to beg, and to-morrow I'll be teaching her a trade, so she need never be asking charity again upon the highroad." That night they reached a wee scrap of a cabin on the side of a hill. The Vagabone climbed the steps and opened the door. Here we are at home, my dear," said he. 66 What kind of a home do ye call that ?” and the Princess stamped her foot. "Faith, I'll not live in it." |